After we made love, Phillip rolled over and went to sleep. My eyes were glued to the ceiling, my brain actively anxious about everything in my life. With all those loonies out there, I couldn’t deny being scared not knowing where Michael was. He was the only person who gave me strength to carry on when life seemed so complicated.
Early on in the year, just after Easter, I promised him we would spend more time together. So far, all we’d managed were Sundays, but even that was scattered and irregular. Tossing and turning, I was wondering where I was going to take him. Then I thought about Jason Harvey. Maybe Michael would like to see a magician. I didn’t remember him ever seeing a real one other than on television, which wasn’t the same. It amazed me how many things children learned from television alone. Kids growing up without ever seeing a real-life cow or sheep. That was the danger of living and growing up in the city, where nature was something mythical found inside the box.
When morning came, I was as tired as when I went to bed. I managed to get some sleep at around four in the morning - at least that was the last hour I remembered seeing on the digital clock by my side-table before daylight woke me up at 7.02 a.m. Phillip was still asleep, naked between the sheets, looking like a little boy with his unkempt hair and long eye lashes.
Quietly I stepped out of bed, pulled on a pair of grey flannel shorts and a white T-shirt, and made my way to the kitchen. I realised I’d been hard with Phillip, perhaps even unfair. Maybe he’d been right when he told me not to take my work home. I decided to make an effort and try to think about other things over the weekend, even if it seemed like thoughts were random things which bombarded my brain without me having any control over them.
While water was boiling for some coffee, I stepped outside the apartment and grabbed my copy of the Sunday paper, which was conveniently delivered to my door. The morning was fresh and crisp, but the sky was cloudless as far as the eye could see. Traffic was already heavy for so early on a Sunday morning. I heard someone swear in the distance, and then the tram coming down the track, on its way up Chapel Street.
I took a deep breath of carbon monoxide, wondering how in the world I was going to last another ten years in a place filled with so much pollution. I remembered watching an autopsy of an elderly woman last year whose lungs were so black, I immediately assumed she was a smoker. But Dr Main explained that these were merely lungs of a person who has spent the past twenty years living in the city, and that in fact her lungs looked quite healthy for someone her age. If I hadn’t know better, I would have thought the poor thing died of lung cancer.
After getting rid of the shrink-wrap, I unrolled the newspaper while making my way upstairs.
Tracy Noland’s picture with the words STRANGLED TO DEATH were splattered all over the front page. The banner at the top stated that here was a ‘special report’ from pp.23-43, with lots of pictures and interviews. The funeral would be conducted on Monday morning. No one had invited me, and it never crossed my mind to ask. I guess I’d just have to invite myself.
Over a cup of virgin black coffee, I poured over the pages one at the time, absorbing everything the public was being told. So much for trying to forget about my work. It was the first thing I read about in the morning paper.
When I turned to page thirty-five, I saw myself in black and white staring back at me. It was a small photo, but it made me look ten years older than I was. Or was that the way I looked in the eyes of the public? There was a caption underneath which read: ‘Dr Kristina Melina nearly pulled out’. Someone had written a two-hundred-and-fifty-word piece on how I was going to drop the case but changed my mind at the last minute. The article included a quote which I didn’t remember saying: ‘There is no justice left in this world. I intend to bring some back.’ That’s creative journalism for you.
Fully absorbed in my reading, I didn’t even notice Michael sneaking up behind me, reading over my shoulder.
‘Your photo’s in the paper again,’ he said, his voice fresh and young. I’d almost forgotten what he sounded like.
I closed the newspaper, but that only displayed its front page with the picture of Tracy Noland, so I turned back to front, flashing a colour photo of Andre Agassi, smiling after winning three straight sets.
I told him about Jason Harvey’s invitation, and he said, ‘Yeah, Okay,’ without hesitation.
We had breakfast together, but had little to say to one another. His world of Playstation, MTV and basketball seemed so far away from mine. I wondered what he was going to do with the rest of his life. I knew he was only a twelve-year old, but I couldn’t help worrying that he had no particular interest, and that would make his choice of career a little more difficult. Mind you, I didn’t know I was going to work in criminology until I reached eighteen.
Phillip joined us fifteen minutes later. He was in a cheerful mood after ‘getting some’ the previous night.
Michael and he exchanged opinions about the forthcoming Australian Open. I didn’t share in the conversation because I cared little about tennis.
By ten o’clock, we were all showered and dressed, ready to make Sunday the best day of the week.
I called Jason Harvey, and we agreed to meet at lunch time at the Esplanade. He told me he wouldn’t be performing at the RSL today after all, but he’d put on a little show at the Sunday market in St Kilda instead.
I parked my Lancer in the car park of the French Alliance, the only place I could be certain of finding a vacant spot without earning a pink slip. St Kilda’s grey ghosts were the worst in Melbourne. With parking restriction from 9 a.m. until midnight in most areas, I’d hate to be a tourist who hadn’t read the signs properly and as a result copped a lovely forty-five-dollar ticket at the end of the day.
We spent some time crawling up and down Acland Street, experiencing its many eateries, novelty shops, buskers and colourful citizens. The atmosphere was fizzing with a carnival ambience, and it was hard to hate this place unless one hated people in general.
I bought Phillip and Michael two chocolate eclairs from one of many European-styled cake shops, which they consumed without saying a word or taking time to breathe. I settled for a freshly-squeezed orange juice.
At 11.45 a.m., we made our way up the Esplanade, in front of Luna Park, where street entertainers had a lot of room to perform their silly but amusing acts.
We watched Jason Harvey, dressed in black with a cape like Zorro, perform a trick with a rope, where he made the rope shorter or longer depending on how he was moving his hands. Michael seemed fascinated by the whole thing, which was quite amazing since it wasn’t something he saw on television or on his Playstation.
Jason continued with some card tricks and a silver ball. He then used his lucky coin and made it disappear out of his hand. I had to admit I was impressed and wished it could have been that easy to solve a murder investigation.
After he finished his performance, people dropped coins in a wooden box he had sitting in front of him. It looked as if he’d made about thirty dollars, which wasn’t all that bad for a fifteen minute act.
When we approached him, his face beamed with excitement.
‘I’m so glad you could make it,’ he said, looking different in his black outfit rather than his chequered shirt and slacks. He moved towards my son. ‘So, you’re Michael. Your mother told me a lot about you.’
‘Hey, that was really cool, the thing you did with the rope,’ Michael said.
‘I can show you how I did it.’
And before I could say anything, Michael and Jason had become the best of friends.
CHAPTER NINE
Monday the 22nd of December, heavy banging on the door woke me up from a deep sleep.
I jumped out of bed, covered myself with a white bathrobe from the en suite and raced down the hallway. I was still tired from having gone to bed late and reading Sue Grafton’s L is for Lawless until one o’clock in the morning.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
‘Hang on, I’m coming.’
&
nbsp; I felt dizzy from being woken up in the middle of a dream. I didn’t even take the time to check the alarm clock on my side-table. I had no idea what the time was, but I noticed it was still dark outside when I stepped out of bed. Whoever it was, he or she had a nerve to come banging at someone’s door so early in the morning or the middle of the night, whatever the time was. I hurried so that the person wouldn’t knock on the door again. I feared Michael would be woken up, if he hadn’t been already.
It was warm in the apartment, and I smelled like night sleep.
I opened the door, not bothering to ask who it was.
Frank stood there, all excited, words pouring out of his month like a fountain. His hair was still wet from a morning shower, and he smelled of cheap aftershave and cigarettes. His eyes were heavy, but the tone of his voice was filled with excitement. ‘You’re not ready yet? Come on, hurry up and get dressed.’
When I realised it was him, I scratched the back of my head and said, ‘What are you doing here? Jesus, what’s the time?’
‘Five-thirty, and you better make it snappy.’
I zigzagged back down the hallway, letting him close the door behind him. He seemed fully awake, while I was battling to keep my eyes open so as to not crash into walls and doors.
‘Why are you here so early?’
We moved to the kitchen where I automatically switched on the kettle and removed two mugs from the cupboard. I threw in a spoon of instant coffee in each mug, and removed a long-life carton of milk from the fridge. I didn’t bother asking if he wanted coffee. At that time of the day, I was on automatic pilot.
‘We’re going to search bright and early before the bastard has the chance to realise what’s going on. And Tracy Noland’s funeral is at ten o’clock, so we want to get the Malcom interview over and done with ASAP.’ He talked so loud, I thought he was going to wake up half the neighbourhood. I asked him to keep it down because Michael was asleep, but he went on, ‘I’ve got the search warrant right here. You get ready while I load your stuff in the car.’ He scanned the kitchen. ‘Where do you keep your camera and PERK?’ As if I would keep it in the kitchen.
We left our coffees untouched while I took him to the spare room, where I kept all my forensic equipment under lock.
‘Okay, okay, you get ready,’ he ordered while jabbing his finger. ‘I’ll get all this shit sorted out. I haven’t slept half the night thinking about this.’
I shook my head in disbelief, but rather than argue, I did what I was told and headed straight for the en suite
The shower was short and sweet, but woke me up from my slumber. While blow-drying my hair, I began to feel the contagious excitement Frank was experiencing. Although I’d tried hard to keep my mind off the investigation over the weekend, I knew I had to face Malcom Sternwood for the second time this week. Now that the moment was drawing near, adrenalin began pumping in my through my veins. As much as I hated crimes, the reason why I chose a career in criminology was because of the excitement that came with it. Unfortunately, there was also a lot of bureaucracy, which I wasn’t aware of at the time I joined the FBI Academy.
I brushed, flossed and used a mouth-wash. After seeing that dreadful picture of myself in the Sunday paper, I was determined to look my best. I dressed in long pants and matching jacket over a white blouse. I looked as if I’d just stepped out of the Police Academy in Mt Waverley.
All the way to Albert Park, Frank couldn’t stop babbling.
‘I haven’t slept all bloody night. This thing is eating me alive,’ he said while tossing a cigarette between his lips. He flicked his lighter on, ready to inhale.
‘Do you mind?’ I protested.
‘Oh, sorry,’ and he butted out before the flame had time to reach the tip of the cigarette.
I had nothing against smokers, but I breathed in enough crap during the day without having to endure somebody else’s vice. Frank was a two-pack a day, and his breath smelled like a lounge room after a Saturday-night party.
Traffic at 6.02 a.m. was mild, making it easy for us to get to Albert Park in under five minutes.
The cul-de-sac was awfully quiet at that time of the morning, and it felt wrong to wake up someone at the crack of dawn, even to serve a search warrant. Surely, Frank could have waited until eight or nine o’clock. It would have made no difference. He was probably going to get a kick out of shocking these people out of their socks. I told him so.
‘The warrant gives me the right to do what I want.’
‘Well, actually, you should only serve this paper during daylight, unless you’ve got a damn good reason to do it at another time.’
‘What do you call this? Night time?’
It wasn’t night, but it certainly wasn’t full daylight either.
‘You know this is going to fall back on you if this kid’s innocent.’
‘Don’t make it sound like I’m doing this on purpose to piss anyone off,’ he protested as we stepped out of the car. ‘Point is there’s no one around at the moment. Everybody’s in bed, which means we’re not going to have nosy neighbours waiting in the front yard and a television crew rolling down the street within five minutes.’
His point was partly valid, but it didn’t stop me feeling like an intruder, especially if Malcom was innocent. I’d hate to be in the kid’s shoes.
‘I’ll get the stuff out of the car, and you can wake up this mob,’ Frank ordered. I was going to protest that I was in charge of the investigation, but it was too early in the morning for an argument. I could have done with at least another hour’s sleep, and Frank was so bottled up with anger, I didn’t want him to take it out on me. Sometimes it’s better to let events take their own course.
Frank slipped the envelope with the warrant in my hand and circled the white Ford Falcon. The warrant gave us authorisation to search Malcom’s bedroom, and Michael’s bedroom only. It had been issued on the strength of the photos I took with me from his room.
I made my way past the front gate, recognising the manicured front yard and the freshly painted picket fence.
Wakey, wakey, it’s the Avon lady!
God, I hated my job sometimes.
Three knocks on the door, one ring of the bell.
It didn’t take more than that.
The door flew open within thirty seconds. Mrs Sternwood looked as dreadful as I felt, like someone who could have done with another two hours sleep. After I told her we were here to search her son’s bedroom, I thought she was going to slam the door in my face.
‘You’ve got a hell of a nerve coming with your papers at this time of the morning,’ she snapped. ‘The boy is still in bed. He’s just come back from work. What am I supposed to do? Wake him up?’
I managed a smile and said, ‘That would make it easier to search his bedroom.’
‘You’ve got a smart mouth, you know.’ She glared at me for a few seconds and added, ‘You wait here while I get him out of bed.’ She slammed the door in my face as I dreaded she would.
I turned around and saw Frank walking up the path.
‘So?’ he said, his hands loaded with the PERK and the camera equipment.
‘She’s waking him up.’
‘Mmm...’
We stood there for a while without saying a word.
Three minutes.
‘How long does it take to wake someone up?’ Frank asked.
‘Give her time.’
Five minutes.
‘Another minute and I’m breaking in.’
‘Frank, be patient. If you came to my door at this time of the morning, I’d do the same to you.’
‘Well, damn it. For all I know the bastard could be running out the back door with all the evidence.’
Seven minutes.
‘That’s it, I’ve had enough,’ Frank snapped.
And so did I.
Frank banged on the door so loud, I glanced to the houses on my left and right to see if he’d woken up the Sternwoods’ neighbours.
No one bothered
answering the door.
And then we heard people arguing inside. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I recognised Malcom’s voice and that of his mother.
Frank banged on the door again and yelled, ‘Police. Open the door.’
Finally, the door flew open for the second time. Mrs Sternwood stood there, tight-lipped and fully dressed in stone-washed denim and a blue T-shirt. ‘What’s the matter with you? Can’t you give us time to get dressed?’
Frank pushed his way into the hallway. ‘Frankly, I couldn’t care less. We’re investigating a murder, and as far as I’m concerned, you can be walking around naked, it makes no difference to me.’
She made a sound with her throat, which implied Frank was the rudest person she’d ever come across, although with her attitude, I doubted it. She must have made a few people angry in her lifetime with her delusion-of-grandeur attitude.
We passed the kitchen to get to Malcom’s room. He was having breakfast, looking morbidly petrified. Immediately, I wondered why he was having breakfast if he’d just come back from work and slipped into bed.
His eyes met mine, and he yelled, ‘I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it.’ He threw his chair to the floor and came running down to the doorway, where I was standing. He stood right in front of me, grabbing me by the shoulders, words spitting out of his mouth. ‘I didn’t kill Tracy. Believe me, I didn’t do it. You know I didn’t do it!’
My heart was drilling through my chest. For a split second, I thought he was going to beat me.
Frank moved in on him fast, grabbed him by the collar of his red pyjamas and yanked him back. ‘Hands off! Go back to the kitchen and stay there.’
‘But I didn’t do it,’ Malcom whimpered, trying to maintain balance.
‘Hey, no one said you did,’ Frank lied. ‘We’re just doing our job here. You’re not being arrested or charged.’
‘Why are you searching my room?’
Frank and I looked at each other, searching for the right answer.
The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim Page 34